Becoming God
by DarkmoonSigel
Summary: I wrote this from Denmark's persceptive. I also made up a reason why he is so freaking crazy. The poem sited at the beginning is not mine. It is a section from Havamal, a really ancient poem about Odin and how he discovered the runes. I made a lot of references to Norse gods and animals important to the Vikings. This is not meant to be accurate or historical. Unbetaed.


Veit ec at ec hecc vindga meiði a  
netr allar nío,  
geiri vndaþr oc gefinn Oðni,  
sialfr sialfom mer,  
a þeim meiþi, er mangi veit, hvers hann af rótom renn.

I know that I hung on a windy tree  
nine long nights,  
wounded with a spear, dedicated to Odin,  
myself to myself,  
on that tree of which no man knows  
from where its roots run.

Við hleifi mic seldo ne viþ hornigi,  
nysta ec niþr,  
nam ec vp rvnar,  
opandi nam,  
fell ec aptr þaðan.

No bread did they give me nor a drink from a horn,  
downwards I peered;  
I took up the runes, screaming I took them,  
then I fell back from there.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOO

Me and mine are sailing in on rough surf to a distant shore far from the places that we call home. We are sailing to claim what is ours by right of blood and might. We shall take all that we desire and leave nothing behind in our wake. It is our way. It is our right as rulers and as gods.

We do not chain ourselves to the land to scratch out a meager existence, off of bare stones and tilling holes into the dark earth like animals. We are not slaves to the seasons, begging good tidings of rain and fair weather. We do not debase ourselves before weak god made out of desperation and hunger, whispering useless pleas to them on quivering lips to be unheard.

Our kind is wild and free with only the endless horizon as the border of our kingdom. We laugh in the face of storms and ride their fury, making them our beasts of burden. The only prayers that fall from any of our lips are the cries of battle and victory.

Our ships are our steeds and the sea is our true home. She is our mistress, our mother, and our undertaker. She all this and so much more, life-giver and life-taker. She is freedom and fortune, dressed in shades of swirling grey and blues and she does not suffer fools upon her. We understand each other so well, her and I.

The bear stands at my side. He is my strength.

My pair of crows are by my other. They are my will and magic.

The fox is at my foresight. He is my eyes, my swift scout.

I am the wolf and I will lead them all to victory. There is no other outcome for us. We will be victorious because we are all gods. We do not fall in battle. Our wounds heal no matter how grievous. We all hear the voices of men and know their deepest desires.

I am their king. I am the All Father. I did not chose this for myself. My people made it so…..wanted this…..needed me to be this.

Nine days and nine nights.

My people hung me from a tree, a sacrifice of myself to myself. They lashed me to a great ash, old and silver with age, and left me there to hang.

The first day I screamed. I yelled for them to return. I begged until my throat was raw and I could taste blood in my mouth and on my lips. I did not understand my purpose then. I do now.

The second day, I knew hunger, a gnawing pit deep within me that seemed bottomless.

The third day, I knew thirst, the searing dryness that made my tongue feel thick and my throat wither.

The fourth day, I froze. I had never felt such cold, not even in the depths of winter itself. I could feel the aching life leave the tips of my fingers and toes as my extremities died slowly before their core.

The fifth day, I burned. Necrotic nerves blossomed anew, blooming in raw vivid colors of searing hot pain. A million tiny points of burning agony covered my body that danced and shimmered with each ragged passing breath that escaped my cracked lips.

The sixth, my people came back to look up at me and I to look down at them. They looked so small to me, so fragile. I told them as much, spat on them though I was too weak to even lift my head and my mouth had long ago run dry. They pierced my side with a spear to see if I still truly lived. I bled upon the tree and felt no pain as I laughed at their expression. I loved the look of fear in their eyes, savored it.

The seventh day, I heard the voices of all men and knew their wishes and desires as my own….made them my own. Their wants wove into a song of power that played out to the beating of my heart, imprinting itself on my soul.

The eighth day, I dreamed of strange places and beings-a field full of sunflowers, surreally green forests drenched with continuous rainfall, waving fields of golden wheat like an earthbound sea, strange purple mountains with valleys hidden deep within their folds. I knew all their true names as well as I knew my own. I called out to them as they looked back at me with eyes like burning stars.

The ninth day, I saw indescribable visions and opened myself to the universe to take in all of its secrets, a swirling vortex filled with shards of deafening color and blinding noise that cut the very fabric of my being, shredding it into nothingness. I re-made myself from the void, a true god.

My crows, Hugin and Munin, cut me down on that last day. With numb lips and swollen tongue, I saw them for what they truly were and told them all that I had learned from my time upon the tree, the great and terrible knowledge that I alone now possessed.

I look back again to my bear, my tall Sweden, who watches the incoming shore with a stoic face and cold winter eyes. I love those hard eyes, their sparkling sapphire depths, their chill. The way I am the only one who can light their fathomless nadir with raw, cold fire. He summons shafts of white lighting and rolls of thunder, signaling our arrival proudly. I start to laugh as the rain falls upon us.

My crows, my brides, my Frigg and Freya, shift at my side. I feel their eyes upon my back and I turn to smile at them. Their eyes of sapphire and amethyst do not look amused, but then they never do, my frozen Iceland and my cold Norway.

My fox, my Loki, turns to look back at all the noise but his gaze lingers on Sweden, not on me. Finland thinks me a fool, but I know of his treacherous ways and desires. My pretty little liar needs to be reminded of his place later on.

The bitingly cold salt spray turns my attention back to the incoming shore and our quarry. I draw my most beloved weapon, my axe, to the chorus of metal, the others echoing my own movements. I feel the fire fill my belly, moving to course through my veins like blood. I bare my skin to the elements, letting the rain steam off of my searing flesh. The thunder wakes above me like a war drum and I raise my voice to meet it, my cries carried in on the wind itself.

I will carve my own mark into this world. I will do this for I am god.


End file.
